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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921702">Let Me Be Good to You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald'>Sam_the_Skald</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Confused John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Experimentation, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, My First Fanfic, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Soft John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:53:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921702</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_the_Skald/pseuds/Sam_the_Skald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John is trying to take care of Sherlock. Sherlock wants to return the favor, but how...?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>178</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Questions and Hypothesis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Yes, the title is referencing Great Mouse Detective, and no I’m not sorry) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2IctxaCPqw </p><p>This is my first ever fan fiction, and it is not Beta read, so I recognize I will have room for improvement but... please be gentle? :)<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chapter One: Questions and Hypothesis</p><p>There comes a point when Sherlock rises back to the surface from his Mind Palace, sees the now-cold tea and the untouched plate of biscuits at his feet, and it occurs to him that he anticipates it rather than being surprised. That’s new. When did that happen? His brows pinch together minutely but he is tired now and the self-reflection is difficult, unpracticed.</p><p>He rubs his hands over his face lightly and allows himself a soft sigh. Emotions are so... thick, and heavy. Thoughts are lightning fast, and he finds he can hop easily between them, back and forth. It’s <em>feelings</em> that trip him up as if wading through molasses and it’s statistically a painful process. Honestly, best to avoid it as much as possible.</p><p>And yet... here he was plodding through the whys of the warm bloom that spreads in his chest at the sight of stale biscuits.</p><p>He sets his teeth when it is so obvious the second it snaps into place; John. Of course, it’s John. That particular warmth accompanies his flatmate often lately. He sighs quietly again, reaching to pick up the dishes. If the intention behind John leaving them there was that of beneficence, then it’s only fair he clean them up... Right? Had he ever done this before? Likely not, the motion was unfamiliar.</p><p>A thought flies though his mind, bright and a bit jarring: Had John both placed the snacks and also cleaned them up without ever mentioning it? Or, had he mentioned it and Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention? That second one struck him as more accurate, so he accepts it as true.</p><p>As he sets the tea cup and plate on the kitchen table and continues down the hall to his bedroom, another thought slides by. This one dimmer and nearly missed in his increasingly fatigued state: Did John feel this warmth when he thought of Sherlock? Is that why he set out tea despite knowing Sherlock would not drink it? The detective falters in his stride, a tightness in his throat that he recognizes as anxiety makes him take an involuntary deep breath. Sherlock mimics the face-first fall back into viscous emotions by tipping himself fully clothed face-first into bed. It was too much to contemplate right now, and sincerely hopes sleep will come soon. </p><p>-</p><p>When the doctor said nothing about the dishes being off the floor the next morning, Sherlock allows a pleased smirk to settle on his face, assuming it had gone unnoticed and therefore “Case Closed”. However, frustratingly, he found himself dwelling on that last errant thought in between his other endeavors over the next couple of days. It harries him like a pest, invading his few precious quiet moments. By the third morning with it on his mind when his eyes open, he stalks out of his bedroom wearing naught but a barely-cinched dressing gown and a scowl - cornering a poor, unsuspecting John in the kitchen as he put a kettle on.</p><p>“This is insufferable, John!” He snaps darkly, gripping the edge of the kitchen table dramatically.</p><p>“Sherlock?" Confused and mildly alarmed blue eyes survey his tall, disheveled flatmate. And, when Sherlock doesn't appear to be physically injured: "What's happened?" </p><p>To his dismay, Sherlock nearly answers. He almost pours it all out on the table before him and let John pick through the raw, jagged mess while he’s stood there without any emotional armor left, stripped naked. <em>And John would probably, rightfully, flee in horror</em>, he thinks miserably, but knows deep down that self-pity was masking a deeper fear. He looks up to see John’s eyes narrow slightly at him, thin lines gathering beneath them with the well-practiced squint of concern. Had he made his feelings too obvious just then? Sherlock’s thoughts fly by in panic. Fast, much too fast to actually read them and stands stock still.</p><p>After a tense quiet, a low grumble escapes the frustrated detective’s throat. His knuckles go white as his grip intensifies along with his ire at his own emotional turmoil. Why can’t John just read his mind? It would make everything so much easier. He turns abruptly and heads for the bathroom without another word, leaving John staring after him mildly bewildered.</p><p>-</p><p>Whilst in the shower, Sherlock lays his forehead against the cool tile, contrasting with the warmth that waterfalls down his back. The temperature difference helps guide his focus to a single point, and he very carefully unwraps the ball of anxiety he’s formed at his core about this John problem. This puzzle made of human interaction and feelings – his least favorite subjects.</p><p><em>What if this were a science problem instead?</em> His mind supplies, helpfully.</p><p>Yes! Brilliant! Every good experiment needs a Question, a Hypothesis, and Data so:</p><p>
  <strong>Question: Sherlock Holmes experiences a positive reaction when John Watson performs Acts of Service (aka one of the “Love Languages”). Does John have a similar reaction when Sherlock displays... sentiment?</strong>
</p><p>Sherlock shudders at the word despite the steamy heat but presses on. For science.</p><p>
  <strong>Hypothesis: If Sherlock utilizes one or more Love Language displays, John will react favorably. Exact reactions dangerous to assume at this time. </strong>
  <strong>Sherlock will log reactions as either Good or Not Good based on follow up questions after display is concluded. </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Requirements for this Experiment:</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>More research on “Love Languages” </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>4-5 prepared Displays and follow up questions </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Clever cover story to conceal the true nature of the experiment to not skew the data</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>John’s permission to experiment on him</strong>
</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes as he rinses the conditioner out of his hair. Certainly, this was a tedious step but the data would be worthless if John realized he was being used as a ‘guinea pig’ (‘lab rat’ would be more appropriate term in Sherlocks’ opinion, but John objected).</p><p>Turning off the tap, Sherlock feels pleased at his progress.</p><p> </p><p>__________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Thank you for reading! :) Naturally, I found a typo and a phrase I didn't like almost as soon as I hit "Post" so it's been very minorly updated. SIGH! </p><p>-Sam</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Consent and Pre-Experiment Research</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This is set directly after the end of Chapter 1.<br/>Thank you very much for the comments and kudos so far! I am feeling more confident now. :)</p><p>This is not a song fic, buuuut since the last chapter had a song to go with it, I decided to include this for your listening pleasure because it made me giggle while I wrote this:<br/>Wishin and Hopin - Dusty Springfield<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAdTsAKvVTU</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
The smirk on Sherlock’s face dies the moment he steps out of the bathroom into the hall. John is leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for him. The doctor’s gaze flicks up from the floor and levels on him, and Sherlock knows he is trapped. It’s an ambush, and Sherlock could either face it head on, or flee to his bedroom. Before John can even open his mouth, the detective starts forming his lie.
</p><p>
 “What the hell was that?” The question was accusatory, but not angry.
</p><p>
 Sherlock plasters a sheepish grin on his face and runs one hand through the damp hair on the back of his head in a show of contriteness. His dressing gown pulls up from the action but, thankfully, he had a towel tucked around his waist. Why did John have to make everything so awkward? Wait, since when had he ever felt awkward about nudity? … Best to investigate more on that later. 
</p><p>
“I find myself stuck. On a case. Shouldn’t have shouted at you...”
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn John for being nosy, </span></em> He thinks,  <em> I didn’t have time to think of a better back story. This is a disaster.
  </em>
</p><p>
His blogger pushes off the wall, standing to his full height. The tension (concern?) melts away but his eyebrows climb up in surprise. “You? Stuck?” John says through a soft laugh, probably not intended to be unkind, but Sherlock bristles anyway.
</p><p>
“Yes, well.” The blush that tinges his high cheekbones wasn’t completely voluntary, but so long as it helped the narrative, then so be it. The rest spills out in a quick, clipped barrage of words: “It involves a romantic relationship and I find I’m a bit out of my element. Have to do more research on emotional reaction. Would you be amenable?”
</p><p>
He finishes with a tilt of his head and toothy smile, trying to make his inquiry look innocent. Though, in retrospect he’s been told that comes across as creepy. He keeps his pale eyes steady on John’s, hoping the eye contact will solidify his trustworthiness. Somewhere behind his facade, he hears himself think <em> How do people do this all day? It takes so much effort.
</em>
</p><p>
“Amenable to what, exactly?” John wasn’t quite falling for it. He knew Sherlock too well, and right now, his flatmate was acting downright odd - even for the world’s only consulting detective. Clearly his comfort level with all things emotion-based was shaky at best, but this was a bit beyond even that.
</p><p>
Sherlock barely contains a look of victory. John hadn’t said ‘no’...
</p><p>
 “I need your assistance with navigating certain emotional interactions." Pale eyes widen at Watson’s smirk in response. It was barely on this side of predatory. <em> About to leap out with a joke at my expense, no doubt. </em> “Nothing <em> that... </em>ah... involved. Oh, stop looking at me like that!”
</p><p>
Just like that, the battle between mounting frustration and attempted patience to see this experiment through was over with a clear victory. An already blush-splotched face fills in with a deeper shade of red, and an unintended pout forms on his mouth. Both thoroughly over this conversation and trying to ignore the twist of confused hurt under his sternum, Sherlock Holmes whirls toward his bedroom door including a billowing of his shiny blue dressing gown for maximum drama.
</p><p>
“Why do I even --” A hand was on Sherlock’s elbow before he could continue his grumpy mumble.
</p><p>
“It’s fine.” Came John’s quiet response. “I’d be happy to help.” This was more gentle than the detective anticipated, which, frankly, did nothing to alleviate the twist in his chest. Hope, however, did rush through him that this experiment may work after all.
</p><p>
  <em>
I hate this, emotions are so volatile! Up and down and up again, so quickly. It’s nauseating.
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, John.” He </span>
  <span>says</span>
  <span> aloud. “...Can I get dressed now?”</span>
  
</p><p>
-
</p><p>
Later, while John was at his shift at the clinic, Sherlock scrolls through web pages about Love Languages. He narrowly avoids grinding his teeth to dust at some of the disgustingly saccharin articles before managing to find more promising scientific entries. Though these were mostly written by Psychologist and/or Psychiatrists, and therefore suspect, it was worlds better than “How to Amplify your Spring Romance” from a Zine for teen girls. He rents an e-book version of <em> Five Love Languages </em> by a Dr. Gary Chapman PhD under Mycroft’s account, and fishes his phone from his trouser pocket.
</p><p>
&gt; It’s for a case! SH
</p><p>
Thankfully, Mycroft is either too busy or doesn’t care enough to respond.
</p><p>
Written in 1995, Dr. Chapman’s work was practically ancient in terms of scientific writing, but he figures it is a good place to start none-the-less as he begins to read...
</p><p>
By the time John returns to 221B, Sherlock has read through it and a variety of other research that cites the book as a reference. His head rests forward on his pressed together hands, now swimming with information and data, barely noticing when John enters the sitting room, hangs his coat, and sits opposite him in the other armchair.
</p><p>
“... barely manage to stabilize the poor bastard. It was a total nightmare!” John was saying, and apparently had been saying for a good while before Sherlock’s eyes come back into focus to the present. Apparently, the doctor notices the change and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners in amusement. “Right, sorry. Enough about ‘boring’ stuff. What about that case you were working on?”
</p><p>
“What ca—Ah, case! Yes. It’s only a four, but there was nothing else on, so...” Before he could finish the sentence, his mobile phone buzzes on the arm of his chair. His icy green eyes flick down and see Mycroft’s name and:  <em> Do I even want to know? </em> written beneath it. Sherlock almost laughs, despite himself, and tries to cover it with a brief cough.
</p><p>
“Thought I would give it a go.” He finishes, not aware at how loaded his statement was under the circumstances.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think I've hit a little bit of a stride with writing? That being said, I know there are probably changes in tense or weird typos.<br/>I promise I won't cry if you point them out so I can improve. Thank you for reading! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Experiment # 1 - Words of Affirmation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Time for MAD SCIENCE. With COMPLIMENTS.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for the lovely kudos and comments! It makes this babby writer's heart thump. :)</p><p>I've succumb to the idea this has become a Song Fic. Sue me, everything translates to song lyrics in my head eventually.</p><p>Lovefool - The Cranberries<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NI6aOFI7hms</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  The next time John had a decently long shift, Sherlock got to work planning out his experiments. Some of these so-called “Love Languages” were easier for him to grasp than others. Gifts? Easy. But <em> Quality Time? </em>
  <span> … What? He had read the book and all that, but the concept of some hours spent with someone having a different quality than others still put him firmly in the emotional molasses that had annoyed him into this experiment in the first place.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He soundlessly types up his intended experiments while rifling through his various notes taken earlier, a crease pinches into his brow with his contemplation. Each one had a brief paragraph reminding him what the display was intended to achieve and how that Love Language was communicated. Then a description of how he intended to weave the display into daily life without (hopefully) being too overt and skewing the data. Then, a set of simple follow-up questions for the end of the day, assuming John hadn’t caught on before then.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Should John see through the experiment and inquire, he had his trusty “Trying to understand something about this case” excuse, and hoped that would resolve it. Sherlock knew how dreadfully flimsy it was, and John wasn’t a complete idiot, so it’s possible one or all of these experiments would be ultimately useless should the doctor prod too roughly at the fabric of the lie. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why am I doing this to myself? Whatever is the point?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span> A low grumble emanated in the relative quiet of the sitting room as he felt the slow, heavy onset of </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. It was similar to waiting on a meeting with a tardy snail. Or, that ridiculous animal talking animal movie John had watched, thinking Sherlock wasn’t paying attention - The one with the rabbit waiting for a sloth to finish speaking. It felt just like that; his thoughts posit rapid fire questions and his emotions take an agonizingly long time to answer. Though, he was getting better at recognizing the sensation of them bubbling up and beginning their journey, so perhaps that was progress? Is this really about practice after all? Flexing an unused muscle to get it (back?) into shape... How interesting.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, there it was. Like a room slowly filling with sunlight of dawn, his answer arrived: Because John made him happy. Sherlock takes a shuddering sigh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why is this so bloody difficult?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He scowls while pulling his long body from the armchair, setting about getting his plans in motion.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For his first experiment, Sherlock Holmes pre-writes some Words of Affirmation, sorts them all into his Mind Palace, and tries to slip them into conversation the next time John is home all day.</span>
  
</p><p><span>-You are a very good doctor.</span> <br/>
<span>-Even though I don’t always drink it, I like when you make tea.</span> <br/>
<span>-I enjoy it when you join me on cases.</span> <br/>
<span>-You would make a good housekeeper. </span><em><span>(Curiously, this did not get the desired result.)</span></em> <br/>
<span>-That jumper is flattering on you.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” John sighs and stands, putting his hands on the back of his armchair as if trying to put it between himself and his bizarre acting flatmate. “What’s going on?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That one must have been too obvious. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sherlock’s pale gaze remains steady, ever so slightly tilting his head as though he had no idea what the other man was talking about.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You know damn well what I mean, Sherlock.” The reply has the hint of a warning in it. John was having none of his innocent act.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I was trying to pay you a compliment.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you mean it?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mean what?” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>compliment</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Sherlock.” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“N-- ... um. Yes?” He clears his throat quickly, adding: “Yes.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John scrubs his hand down his face, exasperated. “It doesn’t count if you are being dishonest.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t it? Oh.” Silence held a moment as Sherlock pondered this carefully. “You look comfortable in your jumper, and I’m glad to see you relaxed. Unfortunately, it really is a horrendous color.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Another beat of silence, and then John tips back his head and barks out a laugh. Their eyes meet and both men fall into a fit of giggles. Turning to leave the sitting room, the blond starts pulling at the arm of his jumper and Sherlock leans forward in his chair with mild anxiety. </span>
  <em>
  <span>Was John upset?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Taking off my horrendous jumper, clearly!” John teases, yanking the offending garment over his head and starting up the stairs to his bedroom while Sherlock is left to mull over the </span>
  <span>jolt</span>
  <span> he felt through his spine at the sight of his blogger’s muscular back.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Later that evening, they were both using their laptop while the </span>
  <span>telly</span>
  <span> plays background noise. It was one of Sherlock’s favorite kind of evenings, amicable silence between them while sharing the room. Looking up to watch John’s face, that ember of feeling in his chest spreads again, and this time he doesn’t try to analyze it and sits with it. Oddly intoxicating, a ghost of a smile pulls on his mouth before he clears his throat to get the other’s attention.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“John, can I ask you something?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Clear, blue eyes settle on his under raised eyebrows – silently inquiring.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The scientist sits forward on the edge of the sofa, pressing his hands together while his elbows steady his now closed laptop. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you say today was a good day?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, ‘spose so.” The concerned twitch of John’s mouth makes Sherlock glance at the floor, trying to hide his amusement. “Why?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The detective shrugs nonchalantly, reopening his laptop.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No reason.” He types his notes into his log with a smirk.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Experiment #1: Success</span>
  </b>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Four: Quality Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Couple things:</p><p>1) I hit 20 kudos today and I nearly cried. Thank you so, so much!<br/>2) Sorry about the really short chapter. I hit a bit of a mental block and work decided to be horrid this week. One may have caused the other?<br/>3) It was about three quarters of the way through writing this that the location of this chapter may have bad connotations - whoops? Time to make new, better memories!<br/>&lt;3 -Sam</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Onwards! For Science!</p><p>Song for "Quality Time":<br/>Beyonce - Listen<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmGe-LY5HQs</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Riding the high of the previous day’s success, Sherlock decides to plough forward with the more difficult of his experiments. “Quality Time”. After some additional research, he develops a plan. John had expressed interest some months ago about doing an activity outside the flat (thank you, Mind Palace for saving that nugget) so he purchases them two tickets to the SEA LIFE Aquarium online. It’s suitably out of the flat, as requested, and thankfully it is a weekday so it will hopefully not be crawling with shrieking children in a confined, acoustic space. The thought makes Sherlock shudder. </p><p>Pale, scrutinizing eyes glance up from his laptop to his flatmate, tinkering around in the kitchen, and he intones: “What are your plans for today, John?” </p><p>“Dunno.” John responds, putting away the mugs in the cabinet. “Might go down to Tesco’s an--” </p><p>“No.” Sherlock interrupts, using his best playful voice. He stands, setting the computer aside. Sliding his hand into his pockets, he gives his blogger a smirk. “Boring. Let’s go out.” </p><p>- </p><p>The cab ride was taking longer than expected as the traffic decided to be hateful. Even John’s rather remarkable well of patience was beginning to flag and Sherlock could see the tension around the doctor’s eyes. He growls both from his own patience was completely spent, and because this might actually be a bad idea. Was his experiment ruined already?  </p><p>“Sherlock?” John’s blue eyes were on him. His question was thick with meaning – What's wrong? Can I help? Do you want to give up and go home?  </p><p>“Maybe you should have gone to the store after all.” Sherlock quips, trying humor to diffuse the weird, tense mood. He sees John’s mouth twitch at the corner and finds himself relaxing. It had worked at least a little. </p><p>“Where are we going, by the way?”  </p><p>Sherlock says nothing, but taps his cheekbone, just underneath his left eye, which twinkles with mischief. He isn’t certain John will suss out his meaning immediately, but he has faith he will grasp it once they get there. If they get there. He scans the outside of the cab grimly, internally cursing London traffic. </p><p>- </p><p>They (finally!) exit the cab near the London Eye, and Sherlock can feel John’s confusion aimed at the back of his head. He turns the collar of his long coat up, heading in the direction of the aquarium entrance with the Thames at their backs. Blessedly, it is as quiet as he had hoped with few patrons milling about in solemn contemplation with the refracted waves dancing across their face. </p><p>He hears John’s scoff before turning to look at his face flip through expressions. Was this the right thing? Soon the knot of worry dissolves as he watches his blogger scoot over to an exhibit entirely filled with clown fish and stares with his mouth slightly open. Sherlock lets out a breath, and wonders why he had been holding it. Nevermind that. His experiment is working! </p><p>John talks off and on as they wander through the building and the detective dutifully attempts the suggestions he read about “Active Listening” - rephrasing back what John says to illustrate he has heard him, asking open ended questions to keep him talking. He even clamped his teeth down on the tip of his tongue to stop himself from correcting John when he misidentifies a Chromodoris nudibranch as a sea cucumber.  </p><p>The differences are really quite obvious, but that’s not the point of this excursion. He reminds himself with a determined frown. Instead, he comments on the bright colors and makes a joke about the animal wearing one of John’s jumpers. </p><p>Sherlock is forced to admit it’s actually a really lovely time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Five: Acts of Service</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Now for a chapter from John's POV!<br/>Finally, the violin makes an appearance. :)<br/>The song for this chapter is Claude Debussy - Violin Sonata<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p1HDpf48Tg</p><p>I wanted to make a longer(ish) chapter to make up for the last one being so short. Please let me know what you think?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Glancing briefly down at his shoes as they stand waiting for another cab, John thinks back on their day at the aquarium. Somehow, it was just what he had needed and it surprises him a little. What surprises him even more, though, was that Sherlock had set it all up. What on earth had possessed his normally prickly, anti-social flatmate to suddenly want to wander about a tourist trap in the middle of the day?  </p><p>He takes a sidelong glance at Sherlock as the taller man waves down their ride, contemplating his head of curls currently dancing in some wind, the angular shape the long black coat makes, and John feels one corner of his mouth pull into a tiny, private smile. Then, as if the moment’s elastic had snapped, the back door of the cab was open and they were clambering inside.  </p><p>Sherlock looked very deep in thought as they rode back to Baker Street, so he decides to look out the window at the blur of color in silence. Thankfully this ride is much quicker than earlier today, and soon enough they climb the steps to home and hang up their coats. When their eyes meet, John smiles full-on, trying to show his appreciation for the outing, to say thank you. Instead, his mouth says: “Tea?” </p><p>“Mm. Yes, thank you.” Their eyes part again, and John sets about the now well-honed motions in the kitchen. Sherlock beelines for his laptop and sprawls out on the sofa, typing away. </p><p>- </p><p>The next morning, John has a shift at the clinic. As he putters through is morning routine, he is still smiling. Maybe he needs a holiday, if a handful of hours out of the flat had made him feel this good. Maybe he’s been more stressed than he had realized. </p><p>As if a cruel universe heard his thoughts, from the moment he arrives at work to the time he opens up the door to fall back into 221B, he is miserable. There was a steady stream of figurative fires to be put out, both clinical and administrative – he wasn’t even finished with all the typical paperwork of the day when he left because of all the other random but urgent nonsense that had cropped up. The relief of leaving for the day was cut off painfully by the heavy downpour of rain, which led to the tube being an uncomfortably humid press of bodies, and his walk from the station left him soaked through as it was too blustery to use his umbrella properly. </p><p>When he is finally home, John hangs his sodden jacket and worthless umbrella, and runs his hands through his hair to stop it dripping down his forehead. His plan is to go upstairs to his room, change out of his cold, wet clothes and maybe get a hot shower, but only a couple of stairs up he hears his name called. He takes a shuddering breath and turns, carefully resisting the rising pressure to absolutely unload how bad his day was if Sherlock so much as hints that something around the house needs done. The very last thing he needs after this wretched day is a shouting match. </p><p>But the consulting detective says nothing. John now stands caught between the overwhelming desire to continue up the stairs and carry on with his plan, but now that he had stopped it would be obvious he had heard Sherlock calling for him. Shite. </p><p>With another deep breath, barely hanging on to his temper that is tinging the edges of his vision red, John descends again and turns the corner to face Sherlock in his armchair. He is in a nice suit and sitting with one leg crossed over the other, hand folded together in front of his chest. To his credit, Sherlock looks a bit sheepish, lips pressed together into a thin line with a pensive look on his face. That already was more than John expected, as typically the dark-haired man rarely looks up from whatever it is he is doing to ask John to put on the kettle, or hand him his phone, or whatever else.  </p><p>Patience dwindling fast, John tilts his head slightly and raises up his eyebrows, silently. What?  </p><p>Sherlock frowns, and blinks rapidly twice. He then unfolds his hands and turns them both palms up, while sweeping his silvery pale eyes around the room. Look. It is so tentative, were John in a better mood, he would have found it deeply endearing but right now the desire to be warm and dry was overriding everything. </p><p>Once again fighting to maintain self-control, John closes his eyes and sets his jaw. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hold back a soft grumble, annoyed with this odd coy game while he stands dripping rain water on the rug. A couple heartbeats go by, and he feels a bit steadier, so he decides to play along and properly looks around the room. Really looks. And the longer he does, the more he is sure he must have slipped into an alternate dimension version of his flat. The desks, mantle and bookcase have all been tidied and dusted, no longer looking like a paper bomb went off in their front room. There was a still steaming mug of tea on the cleared off and gleaming coffee table near the sofa. And, the most damning evidence of all this was some kind of hallucination pulls a quiet gasp out of John’s chest.  </p><p>Sherlock had hoovered. </p><p>Closing his mouth that he only just realized was hanging open, John fixes his eyes on Sherlock again. He was now fidgeting his hands, waiting, seemingly frozen in place. A cautious smile pulls up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, while still holding a portion of his lower lip between his teeth. Surprise? </p><p>“I... Wh-” John stammers. It’s all too much, the horrid day, this Twilight Zone version of his friend. He’s speechless. He can only scoff and stare incredulously.  </p><p>Thankfully, finally, Sherlock takes over then as John is at a loss. Pressing his hands into the arms of the chair, he pulls himself to his full height, adjusting the jacket of his suit. He lifts the mug off the table and closes the gap between them, offering the tea. </p><p>“I ah... wanted to make up for the ‘housekeeper’ comment from the other day.” </p><p>With an almost audible crack, the tension coiling up and ready to pounce as anger breaks instead. He finds himself laughing high pitched and wild like a hyena. When it subsides, he takes the mug from Sherlock’s hands. </p><p>“Thank you. Seriously. Can I please change out of these wet clothes now? I’m miserable.” </p><p>- </p><p>A warm shower followed by dry, comfortable clothes later, and John is back in the (clean!) sitting room on the sofa enjoying still hot take-out Sherlock had ordered while he was in the bathroom. The other man wasn’t sitting, however. Honestly, he still seemed a bit on edge. John watches him set his shoulders and reach for the violin case, and smiles. He nearly always enjoys his personal mini violin concerts. The few exceptions are when Sherlock is in a foul mood and tends to elicit noises more like an angry, tortured cat. </p><p>“I wanted to play for you, if that’s alright.” The deep voice is quiet but firm.  </p><p>John watches him, thoughtfully chewing on pad thai. Often, Sherlock will face away toward the windows when he plays, but this time he deliberately turns to face into the room. To John’s curious surprise, it seems he had deliberately chosen songs more modern that he typically plays, full of drama and emotion. Was that for John’s benefit? Seems logical... </p><p>A thought pulls at John’s subconscious. Why? And the more he tugged at the thread of this thought, the more thoughts and feelings came loose. He starts to recognize patterns in Sherlock’s behavior the last week or so that he hadn’t pieced together before. Before long, there is a tightness in his chest when he looks up at the tall, dark violinist and he is adrift in more than just the sea of the music.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aaaah! 30 Kudos!? I feel spoiled.<br/>Thank you, thank you!</p><p>One more experiment to go....</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Six: Touch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock experiments with the Love Language of 'Touch'</p>
<p>What could go wrong?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I am so pleased people seem to be enjoying my story. I have never really written before so this is an experiment of my own. :)</p>
<p>The song for this chapter is The Darkness - I Believe in a Thing Called Love<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKjZuykKY1I</p>
<p>PS: I raised the rating to M because better safe than sorry, I suppose.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sitting quietly in the darkness of his room, Sherlock reflects while sitting </span>
  <span>crosslegged</span>
  <span> on his bed. The Acts of Service experiment had gone remarkably well. Maybe too well. Cleaning the flat had been more than a little tedious and tiring, and while he recognized that probably should translate to him being more appreciative of the times when John and Mrs. Hudson tidied up, it simply didn’t. He honestly did not care. Maybe the love languages he was receptive to were different? He was aware it was possible to react to some and not all of these 'languages’, so perhaps that was a minor one for him personally?</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, the look on John’s face - when he finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>observed -</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been nothing short of beautiful. And later, while playing the violin, he had caught glimpses of the other’s expression. The far-off, thoughtful look tugged deeply at Sherlock, instilling in him an irrational desire to learn everything that John had been thinking about, to gather him up in his arms and whisper secrets to each other... It honestly felt rather desperate and a bit alarming. However, playing specifically for John, and not just to help with thinking (or distract from thinking, depending on the situation) did give him a certain tingling sensation on his skin that was not unpleasant. Better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoovering</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for damn sure.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, in a meditative sort of pose on his bed, he wondered for the first time since beginning this endeavor if it was the right thing to do. At first, it seemed the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing to do that made any kind of sense, but suddenly this was much more emotionally overwhelming than predicted. The scientific method was supposed to mitigate this, keep the boundaries tightly defined and logical, but obviously he had miscalculated. His feelings, specifically those surrounding a certain ex-army doctor-slash-</span>
  <span>flatmate</span>
  <span>-slash-crime blogger, were much </span>
  <span>more vast and complex</span>
  <span> than anticipated which only made the whole situation all the more frustrating.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where did they all </span>
  <em>
    <span>come from</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>More importantly, how does one </span>
  <em>
    <span>send them back</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A few days pass, and during that time he intends to gather data about how often the two of them actually touch each other. It was difficult to be an observer of behavior on yourself without changing the behavior a bit, but he tried to his best to act ‘normally’. What he found was not exactly promising: It appeared that despite living together and occasionally gallivanting on crime-related adventures, they rarely actually touched each other except when accidental or necessary for a task such as passing items back and forth, or John putting an arm across Sherlock’s chest to stop him from tripping on something. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>What the observation lacked in touch-related data, Sherlock didn’t come out of it completely empty-handed. He was able to glean quite a bit of behaviors the two of them practiced unconsciously, out of habit. For instance, Sherlock found that he tended to keep his hands held behind his back or occupied with an object of some kind (violin, phone, </span>
  <span>etc</span>
  <span>), and when thinking he steepling his fingers together near his mouth. The realization that he did this was almost enough jar him out of doing it, but then remembered he had to be ‘normal’. It still felt a bit odd, but thankfully the muscle memory knew what to do.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John has his own unconscious habits. He tends to stand at parade rest when not at 221B, with arms at his sides or linking his fingers around his wrist behind his back, and feet shoulder-width apart. At home, he was often puttering in the kitchen or sitting. He gesticulates whiles speaking when he’s in good spirits, but holds his arms down stick straight with balled fists when upset. When he was thinking, he balances his chin on his thumb, gently rubbing his bottom lip with the knuckle of his forefinger. Sherlock had felt a warmth rush to his face when he noticed both this gesture, and his body’s reaction to it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A blush feedback loop.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Something about that sight had set certain thoughts and mental images into motion in his mind’s eye. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This line of thinking is officially out of the bounds of this experiment</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, trying to remind his errant transport to behave itself. It didn’t work, and he was forced to alleviate some carnal tension later that evening. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Afterwards, on his laptop, he added a note to his experiment:</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <span>Further data needed on the correlation between arousal and John Watson’s lower lip.</span>
  </b>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Armed with all this new information, Sherlock starts his experiment. Well, minus the irritatingly intense attraction he seemed to have to John’s mouth. That wasn’t helpful. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yet,</span>
  </em>
  <span> his mind whispers.)</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He strategically waits for John to be watching a rugby game on the sofa, and arrives with an open beer and snacks which he places on the coffee table. John doesn’t even look his direction, eyes locked on... whatever it is the men were doing on the screen. His body is taught with anticipation, leaning forward at the waist with both hands splayed on his knees which occasionally tense and grip. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Mirror neurons</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sherlock thinks, casually. John’s motor neurons were firing sympathetically with the action in the game, as if he were the one playing. Slowly, not wanting to startle, Sherlock sinks on to the sofa quite a bit closer than they usually sit together. When he settles in, his right knee shifts and rests against John’s left knee gently. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inhaling quietly, he waits to see if John reacts. It was a bizarre mix of fascination and torture as the seconds passed, but he exhales slowly and still nothing. His </span>
  <span>flatmate</span>
  <span> was transfixed on the game, and hadn’t even registered the touch. Sherlock’s silvery gaze dances over John’s form, trying to understand.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>What does this mean? He isn’t sure if this was a good or bad result. Apparently, John isn’t completely repulsed, but he isn’t exactly paying attention either? He feels himself begin a full-blown pout, but before it takes hold a development happens.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shifts forward to grab up the beer bottle with his right hand, his left settles on top of Sherlock’s knee to steady himself. The pressure of John’s hand sends what feels like hot electricity through his veins, up his leg. His stomach clenches and he must have involuntarily uttered a sound, because all at once John’s eyes were on his face then down on his held knee. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s hand is pulled away quickly, as if he had suddenly realized he had placed it on a hot stovetop. Yet, Sherlock realizes he doesn’t care because the hint of pink that settles across the bridge of John’s nose and the tips of his ears enraptures his entire focus. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>His typically chaotic, busy brain goes silent and the weight in his chest drops into his stomach. </span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>All the sound and thoughts come rushing back in when John clears his throat and licks his dry lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, stop doing that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A murmured apology and an awkward shifting of weight to separate their knees later, Sherlock stares intently at the five-</span>
  <span>ish</span>
  <span> centimeter gap between them and carefully trudges through the proverbial emotional molasses again trying to categorize the last two minutes.</span>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Seven: Conclusion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock wraps up his experiment and presents his paper for peer review.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song for this chapter is And So It Goes by Billy Joel<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcUCYtyaLrY</p><p>"But if my silence made you leave<br/>then that would be my worst mistake.<br/>So I will share this room with you,<br/>and you can have this heart to break."</p><p>Thank you very much for all the kind comments and kudos. It has been a real pleasure to connect with people on this little sliver of my mind. One more chapter for these two sillies.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
Before he can embarrass himself any further, Sherlock slinks into his bedroom, holding his laptop. He is most definitely not hiding. Maybe. Arranging himself in a seated position with his back against the headboard, his flips open the computer and sets to finishing his experiment notes. He has gathered all the data, but the real work now begins.
</p><p>
The process of analysing the data and writing up a conclusion that would reflect if his original Hypothesis was upheld by said data took hours and, to be honest, more self-reflection than Sherlock had anticipated. In the barely pre-dawn hours, he reads through it once more for final edits. The weight of the task rolls off of him like a stone, and he stretches his arms and shoulders with a grimace. He makes extra sure the file is saved properly, sets the laptop aside, and timidly pokes his head out to see if the coast was clear.
</p><p>
The flat was quiet and dark, so he makes to grab himself a bite of something before turning in for good. Before he is able to leave the threshold of his door, though, his foot catches on something in the dark. The noise of the plate upending sounds more like an explosion in the quiet, and Sherlock leaps back a few feet like a startled cat. He gropes at the wall to flip on the light, and is met with the sight of what used to be a plate of biscuits, now scattered on the floor and a (thankfully unharmed) cup of tea. 
</p><p>
A sense of déjà vu and irony flood Sherlock so completely, all he can do is stare and smile for a few moments. He hears his name and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, snapping him out of it. Soon, John comes around the corner in his pajama bottoms, old grey t-shirt and bedhead to find Sherlock crouched down, gathering up the errant snacks.
</p><p>
“Oh damn. Sorry, I thought-”
</p><p>
“No no, John, it’s quite alright.” He interrupts, now with a plate of soiled biscuits in one hand and cold tea in the other. “I... ah - Thank you.”
</p><p>
John’s eyebrows perk up slightly but manages to recover quickly. “Of course.”
</p><p>
“Apologies for waking you.” Sherlock intones, setting the dishes in the kitchen. It is almost a question.
</p><p>
John’s face twists and shakes his head.   <em> Nightmares </em>.
</p><p>
“Say, I have something I’d like you to read over,” He plows forward, knowing he will lose his nerve if he doesn’t say this now. “Since you aren’t sleeping...?”
</p><p>
Their eyes meet, and it kindles that warmth again in Sherlock’s chest. If he had any kind of doubts before, the tea at his door had burned them all away and now it was as certain as the dawn that starts gently pouring light into the kitchen window behind him.
</p><p>
He is utterly, irrevocably in love with John Watson.
</p><p>
John’s eyes squint at him now, somewhere between amused and concerned at the prolonged eye contact, and looks down at the dishes instead. “For that case? Is that what you’ve been working on all night?”
</p><p>
There’s a pause, and then. “Mm yes. Sort of.”
</p><p>
  -
</p><p>
John settles himself into his armchair stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, waiting for Sherlock to return from the bedroom. Admittedly, his flatmate has been acting a rather unique bit of strange this last week or so (different from his ‘normal’ strange), but John had learned to take that in stride since moving in. Still, he couldn’t help but be curious. Sherlock had a way of doing that – keeping his life interesting, and John is grateful. If he were being very honest, even with all the danger and odd behavior, Sherlock is definitely one of the best things to ever happen to him.
</p><p>
He finds his mind wanders to the night Sherlock had cleaned the flat and given him a private violin concert, and remembers that heavy blanket of feelings that settled on him. Not unpleasant, just... unexpected? It had seemed at the time that his brilliant madman flatmate had been specifically trying to please him, to do things for John to make him happy. It was almost as if --
</p><p>
The arrival of said brilliant madman, still in the suit he had been wearing yesterday, broke John out of his revelry and plunked the computer unceremoniously into his lap. Sherlock sat across from him, in his own chair, crossing his long legs at the knee. He placed an elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned to one side, lightly touching his mouth in a gesture John could only describe as “trepidatious while trying to act casual”. 
</p><p>
  <em>
This must be important to him.
  </em> John thinks, followed by a fleeting mental image of brushing his own fingers across that mouth, testing how soft his lips must be. He blinks and sweeps the daydream aside, a little surprised by it. He must be pretty tired... 
</p><p>
He refocuses on the bright screen in front of him, clearing his throat. 
</p><p>
  <b>
The Application of Positive Emotional Stimuli on one Dr. John H. Watson for the Purposes of Ascertaining Reciprocation of Affection
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
An Experiment by W. S. S. Holmes
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances up over the top of the laptop, a crease forming between his eyebrows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the hell...? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Sherlock is avoiding his eyes, so he carries on without saying anything. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As he reads through the Question and Hypothesis, John’s breathing shallows. He’s suddenly too warm and finds it hard to focus on the words – there are questions running relay races across his vision. He had gotten into the habit of covering up or dismissing any feelings beyond congenial friendship toward Sherlock ever since that first night, just before moving in. The boundaries had been drawn quite clear, and John had no intention of ever crossing them. Their current relationships, friend, flatmate, crime solving duo, meant too much to him to rock that boat.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, incredulously, he was reading a signed confession of... something more? Maybe. He tried to focus, maybe if he read more it would become more clear?</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Had this been written about anyone else, reading Sherlock’s research notes on Love Languages would have had John laughing himself into stitches, but it had to filter past his surprise and confusion first, so it only barely registered a tight smile. He leaned forward a bit reading through the individual experiments. One line in particular does actually get a quiet scoff from him:</span>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Note: Despite his skill with keeping house, John does NOT appreciate this as a compliment.</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He had let Sherlock know his displeasure at the comment in no uncertain terms, and now he feels a bit guilty. A flicker of movement catches his eye and he looks up to find the detective watching him with clear apprehension in his fascinatingly pale eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He's self-conscious. Who wouldn’t be, this is quite the </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>declaration.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>John smiles at him warmly and goes back to reading, trying to ignore the warmth on his cheeks. Knowing Sherlock had some kind of feelings for him made eye contact much more intense than before and he wanted to try to get through this write-up before examining that too deeply.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Reading the events of the experiments from Sherlock’s point of view softens something in John, and also makes him feel sheepish for not picking up on it. Clearly, he’s not as observant as he would like to think. Or perhaps his habit of shutting out those thoughts had been so strong that he was blinding himself. He takes a deep breath and releases it shakily, realizing things will never be quite the same after this. An odd mixture of hope and fear swirl through him as he reaches the conclusion of the experiment.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Conclusion</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>As one less familiar with social versus material scientific experimentation, it is difficult to put forth a firm conclusion of the data supporting the hypothesis and so instead, a ‘Well Informed Conjecture’ will be the closest reasonable facsimile I can draw in good conscience. Having observed the subject’s reactions in as objective a way possible under the circumstances, I declare the following theories as true until further evidence is provided to alter this data:</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>As hypothesized, all of the Love Language displays all had net-positive reactions by the subject</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Of the Five Love Languages, “Quality Time” and “Acts of Service” were the most well received</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Judiciously continuing to apply these stimuli would alter the relationship between observer and subject</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <b>
    <span>Assuming positive reaction to the stimuli holds the same emotional connotations for the subject as it does for the observer, an alteration to their relationship would be also result in a net-positive outcome</span>
  </b>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John re-reads the last sentence three times before slowly pressing the laptop closed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, there it is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He stares down where the screen had just been and worries at his lower lip with his teeth, his thoughts jumbled into a mess. He can’t dwell on that now, though, as he can feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into his forehead with manic anticipation now that he had indicated he finished the notes. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why on Earth does John read SO SLOW? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sherlock thinks miserably. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was that a smile? What does that mean? Now he looks concerned. Am I going to have to move out? This was a horrible </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>idea,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> I am so stupid!</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Then, the laptop is shut and – </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh god, he’s biting his lip, he’s going to make me exsanguinate through my nose like in those Japanese comic books. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The tension in between the two armchairs rises to critical levels when John finally looks up and makes eye contact – finally. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“So... there was never a case?” John says softly. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock blanches. Out of this whole ordeal THAT is what first comes to mind? His face reddens and he takes a deep breath to get well and truly wound up into a fit.  Just as quickly, it fizzles out before he utters a single syllable when he sees the facetious smirk tug at the left side of John’s mouth.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I panicked and went with humor.” The blond holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Sherlock... I don’t know what to say. I... this is...” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Anxiety wraps a death grip on his windpipe. A handful of heartbeats go by before John speaks again.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“That night... Angelo’s and chasing that cab. I took you at your word, that you were keen on staying ‘unattached’ - Now, wait, I’m not done!” Sherlock pouts at getting cut off, but leans back into his seat silently anyway. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You had your say, and I haven’t had the privilege to think this over enough to type it all out, so you’re just going to have to suffer through.” John sighs, but maintains his strong, comforting gaze, and Sherlock can feel his shoulders relax ever so slightly. “I have been ignoring any feelings beyond... this, to respect that, to respect you. I care enough about you to never run roughshod over your boundaries. Now, I... If I am honest, I don’t know exactly what those feelings even are, I’ve been sweeping them under the rug for this long.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock watches John set aside the laptop and push himself to standing, alarm bells start ringing in his ears. Everything John does now is potential rejection and it has all his senses on red alert. How many times must he go over this horrid stress roller coaster today before he gets resolution?</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, this turns out to be John distracting himself by making tea and not a full retreat. Extricating himself from the black chair, Sherlock stretches, suddenly very aware he had never changed since yesterday. The emotional and physically exhaustion was catching up to him, it would seem. He shuffles to the kitchen table to sit rather ungracefully while rubbing his eyes. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John looks like he is about to start speaking again but then turns to face a barely awake, zombie version of the man and gives him a pitying smile instead. He pours himself tea, and holds out a hand to help Sherlock to his feet. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon. Why don’t you get some sleep and let me think on it alone for a bit, yeah?” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock squints at him suspiciously, but flops a hand out to grab John’s wrist and yank his tall frame to a stand. “I ‘</span>
  <span>spose</span>
  <span> that’s acceptable.” He mutters with more sibilance than intended. He really was knackered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid feelings. Take so much brain power... Could be doing much more important things than sleeping right now! … Will John come to bed with me?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The next he knows, John is speaking to him in quiet reassurance; his shirt is over his head, his trousers are kicked off and as he curls up under his sheets in his bed. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yup... Totally in love.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Eight: Practical Applications</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Apologies for the long down time between chapters. My creative juices were being stubborn, and then they thought of a new story and went on a tangent before I could wrangle them back to this story. I am feeling rather pleased by how this turned out. Not bad for a first try? I have a few things I would like to work on after working through this first story, so hopefully I will show improvement moving forward.</p><p>Thank you very much to everyone who left kudos and comments, it really helped with my shaky self-esteem and resolve to continue. I admit I have a track record of starting things and not finishing them, so this is a big accomplishment for me! And you all helped. &lt;3</p><p>The song for this Chapter is Head &amp; Heart by Joel Corry x MNEK<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRuOOxF-ENQ</p><p>It's been stuck in my head for weeks, so there you go. :)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>John gently pulls Sherlock’s door closed, trying to avoid making any noise. His brain gives him no such courtesy, however. It roils and chatters as he sits himself down at the kitchen table again, staring down at the wood finish blankly. John remembers a mindfulness technique his therapist had suggested months ago. Just the thought of his early time back in London makes him shift in his seat and unthinkingly straighten his back. He takes a slow breath, closes his eyes and tries to recall the process.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Imagine you are seated on a large flat rock in the center of a stream of water. The stream is your mind, where thoughts and feelings drift toward you. You can see the thoughts, acknowledge them, and let them slide by. No need to jump in after each one to </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>analyse</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> it, or you will exhaust yourself. Practice feeling them and then letting them go...</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Though John doesn’t have a Mind Palace like Sherlock, he does like to think he has a file cabinet of sorts where he keeps his thoughts and memories. His brilliant </span>
  <span>flatmate</span>
  <span> has a rather large file, as one might imagine. It is full of Sherlock’s likes and dislikes, John’s favorite things about him, and the occasional errant “What If” that John shuffled into the drawer for later. Or never – he hadn’t intended to ever look into or act on any of those thoughts, but now the rules have changed. Now Sherlock </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to change their relationship. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>In his mind’s eye, John pulled the large file of memories and very deliberately imagines tossing it up in the air to fall as they may in the metaphorical stream.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The first few to drift by are rather surface level and easy to cope with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock likes his tea with two sugars. Sherlock’s posh shampoo smells nice. Never playing Cluedo with Sherlock ever again. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That one causes a twitch at the corners of John’s mouth.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The memory of laughing with Sherlock in the front hall after chasing a cab through the streets. Sherlock is married to The Work.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John lurches ever so slightly in his chair, barely stopping the urge to chase that thought down. Was that different now? If... No. Focus, Watson.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Watching Sherlock play violin earlier this week. The way his eyes changed color with his mood, sometimes silver pale, or grey green, or aquamarine. He had mentioned being aroused when looking at my bottom lip in his experiment notes? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Said bottom lip pulls into his mouth, wetted by his tongue as that thought reluctantly slides past, despite wanting very much to think more about it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The heat felt when he catches himself staring at Sherlock’s mouth, or eyes, or fingers... </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John clears his throat and adjusts in the chair again. He had avoided these things for so long, it was habit to try to shove them down, brush them aside. To really sit and feel them now felt enormous and difficult.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A daydream of holding those hands in his own, pondering how their fingers would fit together. Imagining rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone while holding eye contact. What would it feel like to have Sherlock’s hands through his hair? On his chest.... </span>
  </em>
  <span> Nope. That is enough of that.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John’s eyes open to find he had balled his hands into fists and forcing himself to relax causes a shudder to run through his spine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ok. Fine. I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Now what?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of hours later, Sherlock peeks out of his door with sleepy eyes and a disheveled mess of hair. He had the strangest dream about pulling open a dam with his bare hands and the flood beyond it was viscous and warm. Clearly, he needed some caffeine.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He slinks into the kitchen, in soft </span>
  <span>pyjama</span>
  <span> bottoms and his second-best dressing gown. Thankfully, John doesn’t seem in sight. Talking about their Schrödingers’ romantic relationship right now is not overly appealing at the moment. Coffee first, then more emotions.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can start up the compact (very expensive) espresso machine, though, he hears an odd noise that gives him pause. He had thought himself alone but obviously that was not the case, and the surge of adrenaline mixed with curiosity slaps him awake. He moves to the sitting room with as much silent grace as he could manage while wielding a white ceramic mug as a weapon over his head, trying to sneak up on whatever potential ne’er-do-well was spying on him.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Said villain turns out to be John slunk down low in his armchair, fast asleep and snoring softly as he cuddles the Union Jack pillow to himself. Sherlock’s heart feels as though it attempted to jump out his mouth onto the floor. Had he ever seen John like this? So soft and... </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable</span>
  </em>
  <span>? It is </span>
  <span>certainty</span>
  <span> the first time in recent memory. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Setting the mug down as quietly as possible on the breakfast bar, he moved around the chair to hunker down in front of his sleeping friend. Sherlock ponders the best way to wake him while taking the opportunity to catalogue the peaceful look of his face. It was rare, and worth saving for later. It wouldn’t do to startle John and potentially trigger his fight-or-flight response, so he stands again and picks his way to the desk where his violin case lay. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He mentally flicks through the music he knows as the resin slides onto the strands of the bow, trying to pick the perfect piece to gently pull John to wakefulness. By the time he puts the bow to the strings, he has the sheet music displayed in his mind’s eye, and ever so softly pulls the first tone to life.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It only takes a few bars of the gentle melody for John to start stirring, turning his face into the arm of the chair as if to block out the light. A low groan emits from his throat in protest but eventually his eyes open, cloudy and unfocused. Sherlock tries not to smile, continuing to play the soft revelry through John rubbing his eyes with a long yawn, adjusting his posture to sit up all the way. He deposits the pillow next to his left hip and stretches his arms above his head with another groan. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Morning?” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of answering, Sherlock finds the best progression to stop the song as gently as it began, and set the instrument back into the case. He finds his way to his own chair, opposite John who was watching him. They sit like this, silent and apprehensive, until John sighs and stands up. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Need tea.” He mumbles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh right, coffee!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock stands up to join him, recovering his mug from the bar with a mild smirk at the memory of preparing to smash it on an intruder’s head.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the morning and early afternoon are more comfortable, settling into a familiar rhythm of daily life. John smiles to himself at how easy it is while washing out their drink mugs from this morning. He tries to see this same afternoon through a different lens. Would it be this nice with occasional brushing touches, or soft kisses to punctuate the activities? He finds a certain thrill in the thought, and sneaks a look over his shoulder at Sherlock who is on the sofa, occupied with reading on his laptop. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ok.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Thinks John, after drying off the dishes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Into battle.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing the rug to the sofa, he pats Sherlock’s ankles in a gesture to request space. Sherlock’s long limbs bend up without even looking up and settle his feet and calves into John’s lap as soon as he sits. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Git.</span>
  </em>
  <span> John breaks into a smile and settles his hand on a cotton </span>
  <span>pyjama</span>
  <span> clad shin.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” He proffers, hoping to get Sherlock’s full attention. Seaglass-green eyes peer over the top of the screen and focus in on him, darting over his face. Then the laptop is closed and set on the coffee table. John watches Sherlock’s expression change, and struggles with a wave of guilt when he recognizes Sherlock was bracing himself for rejection. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“John, I -”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Wait.” John shakes his head, turning his body to have them facing each other better. “Sherlock, I have been thinking about this.”  He is met with intense eye contact and silence. It’s unnerving and it takes a moment to gather himself again. He huffs out a sigh and presses on.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I... ah, didn’t know – That is, had I known... </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He scrubs his free hand over his reddening face. This wasn’t going as well as he envisioned. “I’ve always fancied you, okay? I kept it to myself because I was trying to respect your boundaries. I didn’t want to mess up what we have by being selfish...” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John watches as Sherlock’s face as he speaks, the way his eyebrows fly up and the adorable head tilt he does when he is contemplating something he hadn’t thought of (John doesn’t get to see it very often). He gives the shin under his palm a squeeze, hoping it is reassuring.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>There is a long pause, John waits as Sherlock was clearly choosing his next words carefully. When the words </span>
  <span>come,</span>
  <span> they are fast, but soft and contemplative. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I admit I hadn’t considered including more into our relationship until very recently, but the thrice-damned </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings</span>
  </em>
  <span> came without my permission and would not relent until I examined them further. I came up with the experiment to see if perhaps they plagued you as well. You’ve done an exceptional job at hiding them, or I was preoccupied. Or both.” Sherlock finally takes a breath, and John lets go of the one he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Regardless, they remain, and while I harbor a certain hesitation at altering our current relationship, as you said, because I enjoy our friendship and working partnership very much; it appears that remaining ‘just friends’ is proving difficult. The desire for </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> is stronger than I anticipated, and I fear we may be at a... what’s the phrase? Junction?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Crossroads?” John offers, his voice catching.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Just so. And, the prospect is bafflingly terrifying.” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what you mean.” A sympathetic smile spreads on John’s face, but he looks down. Was this the end then? An ache deep in the center of his torso makes it hard to breathe, and his hands ball into fists in response. He stubbornly ignores the sting at the outside corner of his eyes.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Suppose we’ll have to test if Tennyson was correct.” Sherlock’s voice drops in tone to a startlingly sexy deep octave, making John look up with confusion. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>In a sudden slither of limbs over leather, Sherlock is on him, chest to chest. Their breath mixes, John’s short and quick with surprise. Try as he might to regain eye contact, he can’t stop staring at Sherlock’s mouth. His tongue wets his bottom lip unconsciously, and the sound the man on top of him made is otherworldly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span> my g-</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John isn't given a chance to even finish the thought. Hot, soft lips are pressed against his. Hands are on the back of his neck and pressed on his chest. Everything was tense, and warm, and bright. </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Dazed, John realized the kiss had stopped and opens eyes he hadn’t remembered closing. The brilliant, amazing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>glorious</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock Holmes looks down at him with an amused grin.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>John blinks. “Yeah. Yes.” He returns the smile slowly. “I definitely am.”</span>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That therapy technique is something my own Therapist gave me years ago. Maybe I should show her this to prove I remembered it!</p><p>Sherlock is referencing "In Memoriam A.H.H." by Lord Tennyson, the last stanza says:</p><p>I hold it true, whate'er befall;<br/>I feel it, when I sorrow most;<br/>'Tis better to have loved and lost<br/>Than never to have loved at all.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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